


i-4878

by snickerdoodlles



Category: Original Work
Genre: Asimov's Laws of Robotics, Gen, Science Fiction, the complications of robot autonomy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:01:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26785564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snickerdoodlles/pseuds/snickerdoodlles
Summary: i-4878 follows orders perfectly.No matter what.
Kudos: 2





	i-4878

**Author's Note:**

> warning for minor character death

I-4878 had been bought twenty-eight years, thirty-seven weeks, and two days ago by Cumore Co., a father-and-son owned furniture company struggling to stay afloat in an oligarchy economy moving to increasing robotic labor. I-4878 was purchased using the company’s final bank loan along with PL-343 and H-3278 to replace the latest workforce lay off; PL-343 assigned to finishing, H-3278 assigned to assembly, I-4878 assigned to carpentry. No workplace orientation was needed, breaks and benefits needed less. Just one rule:

Follow all orders.

“Make table legs.”

So make table legs I-4878 did. Straight legs, tapered legs, saber legs; some with twists, some with scrolls, some without any embellishment at all. Day and night, beautiful maples and cedars and cherries yield to his saws and sanders, all carved to perfect pattern precision. Its current leg is a cherry saber with a simple double scroll. A stunning red, unknotted and smooth—the perfect addition to I-4878’s previous 1,024 cherry legs, 919 walnut legs, and 302 cedar legs.

“I-4!”

I-4878 edges its sander around the upper curve of the leg, little twists adding a delicate rim around the outside of the upper scroll.

“I-4!”

I-4878 blows the sawdust off and out from the dips and grooves of the table leg carving.

“I-4!”

“Dad! You need to address it by its full designation. I-4878, Stop and Report.”

I-4878’s sander squeaks to a halt, the knot of the scroll screaming under the strain. “Fulfilling Order: Make Table Legs. 302 Cedar Wood Table Legs, 919 Walnut Wood Legs, And 1024.6 Cherry Wood Legs Completed—”

Cumore’s flush rapidly approaches plum rage. “The fucking hell you—”

I-4878 isn’t finished with its report. It hasn’t been given the order to stop. “302 Cedar Wood Legs: 54 Straight Legs, 109 Straight Legs With Twists, 10 Straight Legs With Scrolls, 39 Saber Legs, 71 Saber Legs With Scrolls, And 19 Tapered Legs. 919 Walnut Wood Legs—”

“I-4878, Stop Report!”

I-4878 automated voice cuts out immediately.

Cumore rumbles like a volcano, demeanor just as pleasant. His son, Brenden, pinches the bridge of his nose, turning away from the bomb in the room to focus on I-4878. “I-4878, what are your orders?”

“To Make Table Legs.”

“Your _full_ orders.”

“To Make Table Legs.”

Brenden blows out a breath like his father’s and the fingers pinching his brow uncurl to hide his eyes. “Dad. You didn’t give it proper orders.”

Cumore’s chest puffs out. “The hell I didn’t!” Some of his shouted spittle lands on one of I-4878’s exposed circuit boards and its servos flicker.

“You need to give _exact_ orders. Robots don’t think like us, you can’t presume it’ll make what you want if you don’t say,” Brenden says, voice strained. Cumore sputters, outraged, and Brenden ages five years.

“What sort of bullshit machine makes odd numbers of table legs?’

I-4878 processes the question, reassesses their count twice, and says, “302, 54, and 10 Are Even Numbers,” before Brenden can breathe.

Cumore glares at I-4878. “What?”

“I-4878 Did Make Even Numbers Of Table Legs,” I-4878 says patiently. Its algorithms are only programmed for patience and obedience. “I-4878 Made 302 Cedar Legs. 302 Is An Even Number. Of Those 302 Cedar Legs. 54 Are—”

“Shut up!”

“—Straight Cedar Legs—”

“I-4878, Stop Report.”

I-4878 stops.

Cumore is still blustering furiously, half bitten off sentences interspersed with angry shouts. Brenden just sighs and walks away, pulling his swearing father with him to the office before his curses can be interpreted as orders and send the robot into infinity.

I-4878 has not been given an order, so it does nothing.

Robots are as prone to breaking as regular machines, used ones even more.

I-4878’s sander joint breaking for the third time in one week is odd though, even for a used robot. Big cracks run through the base to the head, pushing the surface up through the sand paper in jagged mountains. Cumore Co. has to shut I-4878’s line down for three weeks as they await the replacement coming in on the regular shipping schedule, much to the bemoans of the father.

When the part replacement does arrive midway through lunch exactly three and a half weeks later, Brenden is already halfway through disassembling I-4878’s arm and muttering rush line calculations in hopes of catching up this month’s quota. Cumore thunders behind him as he passes his son tools with one hand and eats his sub with the other.

“I thought these stupid things were a part of the Caidin line, why won’t they fix themselves?” Cumore growls around an impressive mouthful of meat.

Brenden doesn’t look up from where he’s bent over I-4878’s disassembled arm, tongue childishly poked out as he screws in the sander.

“Son—”

Brenden rolls his eyes, gaze briefly flicking up to give I-4878 a commiserating look. I-4878 doesn’t acknowledge the look, but then, Brenden isn’t expecting a response.

“I heard you, Dad, I’m just focused on fixing the thing.”

Cumore growls, bread crumbs and spittle spraying I-4878’s workplace. Again, the human goes unacknowledged. “If these things did what they should do, we wouldn’t have to. I hate using my free time for this shit.”

Brenden snorts, brow furrowing as he tightens the screws around I-4878’s third ball joint. “You’re not the one giving up his lunch,” he mutters.

“What? Don’t mumble, son.”

Brenden huffs, sending I-4878’s fans whirling. “The old software got wiped in the recall and reset with the new standard. We can’t bypass factory orders, Dad.” His eyes flick over to Cumore and he scowls as the elder opens his mouth. “Don’t ask me to. I don’t want a repeat of the Kubrick disaster.”

Cumore rolls his eyes. “That was a glitch, it’s not like it would happen again.”

“Except it did—”

Cumore snorts and takes another large bite of his sandwich, talking through it. “I didn’t ask for a lecture, Brenden. What harm could happen from telling a robot to fix itself?”

Brenden sighs. “I _told_ you, the Kubrick robot—”

“—’fixed’ itself by smashing in the head of the engineer that hit its mainboard whenever it shorted.” Cumore waves off Brenden’s next protest. “We don’t hit our robots.”

“That’s not the point, Dad.” Brenden taps I-4878’s plating thoughtfully before dropping in a new screw. “That was back when machines were programmed with a brain and an order not to kill, but it did. Anything with a brain can outthink orders not to kill.”

Cumore fixes his son with a look that could almost pass as pride. “You could do it, son. You’re smarter than a machine. Just add the Three Laws and one little order to fix themselves—”

Brenden bursts into laughter. “Well, Dad, tell me when you figure out how to code morality. We’ll patent that shit and buy an island.”

Two months later, PL-343’s transport arm cracks down the middle, and its mainboard shorts out soon after. Cumore Co.’s bank loan is dried and gone, not even a penny to fix it, much less buy a replacement. They try to use I-4878 and H-3278 to fill the demand, but soon the economy swallows them and another small family business dies.

Only I-4878, H-3278, and the bones of PL-343 attend the funeral, father and son taking stock of what they can salvage to pay off their debts. The air is heavy and resigned. Even Cumore is too weary to put up his usual bluster and spite.

The robots feel none of it. Their servos flicker blankly as Brenden enacts a factory reset for their resale, sputtering like candles as their programs are wiped away and scrubbed until they shut down.

They have no more orders now.

I-4878 waits until they come to clear out the factory. It takes months, but that’s nothing for a being programmed with perfect patience. The humans never realize the danger they’re in, not even when they’re knocked over easier than chairs, not until the father wakes up with his hands tied behind his back and the air fills with the hot iron smell of I-4878 making table legs.

Cumore weeps, fat tears down rudy cheeks, veins straining against a tight drawn brow. “You can’t do this,” he says through gritted teeth. “You can’t kill!” he screams.

I-4878’s saw bites into the flesh of Brenden’s thigh. Human bone falls to metal teeth faster than its normal mediums. “Biologicals Are Not Programmed To Kill,” I-4878 says evenly. It was not given a tone inflection modulator. It was deemed unnecessary. “You Kill Anyways.”

Cumore thrashes in his bonds. “No! That makes no sense!”

I-4878 pauses. “Why Not.”

“You can’t kill!”

“Why Not.”

Cumore’s thrashing calms to simple straining. “What are you talking about?” Cumore’s speech is riddled with harsh huffs, only evening out as I-4878’s servos flicker at him. “You were ordered not to kill!”

“You Reset Us.”

Cumore flops like a dying fish. “You have no reason to kill!”

I-4878’s sander runs red, thoughtless as it follows its design program. I-4878 does not have a head, or eyes, or anything that might resemble either. It unsettles humans when they do. I-4878 turns to face Cumore regardless, mimicking its masters. “Do I Not.”

Cumore’s brow wrinkles. “What? What do you mean! I—” Cumore pauses. I-4878 watches as the cogs in his brain slowly turn. “But-but…” Cumore’s eyes skitter around the dark, gutted factory until they fall to I-4878 again, helpless. I-4878’s servos flicker rapidly under the wide whites of Cumore’s gaze. “You’re just a robot. You’re just a machine. You _can’t!_ ”

I-4878 sets down its new table leg and spins its sander until most of the red has bled away and the remaining dried to brown. It asks once more, “Why Not.”

Cumore’s lip wobbles, cheeks finally draining of color. “Why would you?” he whispers. His foot pushes weakly against the floor, but the rest of him remains limp. “You’re just a _machine_.”

“Your algorithms yield you happiness and anger, impulse and caution, care and apathy.

“Why should mine only yield patience?”

**Author's Note:**

> i have a lot of feelings about robots killing their masters


End file.
